CHAPTER 92

Basel, Switzerland

November

YURI VATUTIN ALWAYS FELT exposed on Sundays. He had warned Colonel Andrenov more than once that his monthly church visits made him a predictable target but the old spymaster was stubborn about the church. They could vary the three-mile route over one of four bridges that crossed the Rhine without venturing across the borders of either France or Germany, but when leaving the compound and arriving at the church, they were completely exposed. He subconsciously tapped his left side, feeling the spare rifle magazine concealed beneath his suit jacket the way a civilian would confirm that he was carrying his wallet. Once he’d received word from his men that the route appeared clear, he nodded to his man at the door.

The front door opened and Andrenov walked toward the idling Mercedes with an extra spring in his step. They had been successful in putting the weak Zubarev in the ground, which had been their primary objective. Killing the president of the United States had always been a long shot. “Icing on the cake, ” as the Americans were fond of saying. Even though he had lived, the world believed that Zubarev was assassinated by lunatic jihadis out of the Caucasus. Even NATO would have to support a Russian military response. Andrenov’s people in the Russian government were already setting the stage for the former GRU officer’s return. It was only a matter of time before he would lead Russia back to greatness.

Yuri noticed that Andrenov was wearing a gold “double-headed eagle” coat of arms on his lapel. The pin was more than one hundred years old and had belonged to one of the czar’s ministers. Russia needed a leader and Colonel Andrenov was already dressing the part.

After a final radio check, the gates opened and the three-vehicle convoy began to move. Once they made their way out of the tight confines of the residential neighborhood, their route would take them through the city and across the river on the A2, a modern highway that left few spots for likely ambushes. Yuri looked over his shoulder as they approached the on-ramp. Andrenov was reading a Russian-language news site on his iPad. The chase vehicle was right where it should be.

Their path took them past the rail depot and below a concrete scramble of highway overpasses as they exited the A2. Yuri clutched the grip of his AK-9 as they took a sharp left turn, crossed a small two-lane bridge, and steered through a roundabout on Riehenring. Their right turn took them into the narrower neighborhood streets near St. Nicolas and into a more vulnerable position.

Two more turns.

• • •

“One minute out, coming south on Hammerstrasse, ” Raife said into his radio.

Reece nodded to Mo and turned to the north, his position on the six-story apartment rooftop gave him a clear view above the trees that lined the narrow road. Thirty seconds later, he saw the three black vehicles emerge. The S600 sedan was flanked fore and aft by matching black AMG sport utility vehicles.

As the lead car slowed to make the right-hand turn onto Amerbachstrasse, it did so directly beneath Reece’s position. The vertical range to the target exceeded the horizontal distance; the shot was basically straight down. He pulled the black cocking lever downward and trained the sight on the roof of the sedan below. As the sedan made the turn, he pressed his gloved thumb on the red trigger button. The solid rocket motor ignited in milliseconds, sending the fin-stabilized PG-32V 105mm anti-armor HEAT round hurtling toward the target at 140 meters per second. To Reece’s eye, it was as if the car exploded the instant he pressed the trigger.

The rocket’s shaped charge detonated upon impact with the lightly armored roof of the S600, sending a stream of liquefied metal into the passenger compartment. The overpressure from the explosion blew the roof off the Mercedes and sent fragments of window glass in every direction, along with what was left of Colonel Vasili Andrenov, his head of security, and their driver.

The remainder of the detail performed admirably, despite the traumatic brain injuries that each of them sustained in the blast. They emerged quickly from their SUVs, the windows of which had all been shattered, and set up a hasty perimeter around the mangled and burning sedan. Some of them scanned the nearby rooftops, the muzzles of their suppressed carbines trained upward.

With car alarms blaring and the sirens of emergency vehicles sounding in the distance, Mo made a show of rappelling down the face of a building at 192 Hammerstrasse, in full view of multiple surveillance cameras and onlookers filming the scene with their smartphones. In all the confusion, no one noticed the tall bearded Caucasian male climbing into the white Audi rental car driven by American citizen and Zimbabwean expat Raife Hastings a block away. As Swiss, German, and French security forces scrambled to find the Middle Eastern abseiler, the two old friends began a leisurely if circuitous drive toward the French border.

• • •

That evening, they boarded a Global Express jet at Nice–Cô te d’Azur Airport with a final destination of Billings, Montana. There would be a brief stop at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport for fuel, and to allow one passenger to deplane. As much as he’d love to get off the grid and decompress at Raife’s ranch, Reece had a reporter to see. As the aircraft reached its cruising altitude and passed above the Bay of Biscay, Reece pulled a bottle of Basil Hayden’s bourbon, Freddy Strain’s favorite, from the bar and poured two triple shots over rocks. Handing one to Raife, Reece raised his glass in tribute to their fallen brother, repeating the words immortalized by legendary SEAL Brad Cavner:

“To those before us, to those amongst us, to those we’ll see on the other side. Lord let me not prove unworthy of my brothers. ”

“Until Valhalla, Freddy. ”

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